If At First You Don't Succeed....

So, I'll begin this post by saying that it's now been 19 days, and I'm not smoking. I'm beginning to feel almost comfortable in my quit. Breathing is much easier, though I still get winded easily with exertion. And I cough much, much less. I am still wearing the Step One nicotine patch, which contains 21 mg. of nicotine. I take it off when I get into bed to prevent the difficulty sleeping and the vivid dreams and nightmares I've experienced in past attempts when I tried to sleep with the patch in place. I do not feel desperate for a cigarette when I awake in the morning, although when I smoked, that was a big deal for me. So...small victories.

Back to my diagnosis of COPD. I would say that for the first year after that pulmonary function test (and a sobering follow-up appointment with my MD), I decided that a little shortness of breath didn't warrant such a major life change as quitting smoking entailed. That approach is what I refer to as "Clepatra-Queen of de Nial."

A few months later, my coworker at Schwab suffered a heart attack following one of our smoke breaks at work. It was a frightening and sobering experience. Because of a family history of heart disease, he knew what it was when it began, and came into my office for help, leaving his client sitting stunned in his office. I closed my office door and called 911. He sat across from me, sweating, struggling for breath, and trying stay conscious. At his request, I ran around desperately to nearby offices looking for an aspirin (which I never found--nobody has them anymore) and watching for the help that seemed to take forever to arrive. After about 20 minutes, he was whisked away to the emergency room and immediately into surgery. I stayed behind to close the office and notify his family and our off-site manager of the situation, and then went to the hospital to check on his condition before going home. I spent the rest of the afternoon on a float in my pool, shocked and unable to process the days events. Smoking,of course.

I really didn't think much more about the COPD diagnosis, but when I did, I got angry. I didn't want to think about it.

In the winter of 2003, I got a cold. As it progressed and got worse, my breathing became more and more labored. One evening I was laying in bed with my laptop, chatting online with a good friend, a teacher in Miami. I told her about the trouble I was having. It felt as if I had a pillow in my throat, and no air could pass it. I was terrified. She insisted I sign off and call an ambulance. I knew it was probably a practical suggestion, but the very idea terrified me even more. I did sign off, but instead of calling an ambulance, I called a local friend and asked him to please come over. When he arrived, I gave him a bag I had prepared with all of my remaining cigarettes (still cloves) and all of the ashtrays and lighters I owned. I asked him to dispose of them for me. I was done. Just like when I was a little Catholic girl growing up and I would get sick and make a bargain with God--please, if you'll just let me get well, I promise you I will become a nun--this time the bargain was with reality. Please, if this breathing crisis will just pass without a trip to the hospital, I will never smoke again!

I never became a nun. And although I did quit smoking that day, it wouldn't be the last time.